


The Hands Will

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, mute corvo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a bunch of short stories centered around a mute Corvo, and the effect he has on others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Speak

There were two recognized forms of sign language, Tyvian and Serkonan. According to the Abbey, the former was acknowledged as the “superior” method of signing. However, unless one was looking into a career of spreading the good word there wasn’t a demand to master either form. Despite the volumes of books founded on the history and teachings in the art of signing, most members of the Abbey saw both variants as cumbersome and unnecessary. Even Tyvian sign language, which demanded less bodily expression, wasn’t highly looked upon as a means of communication.

Martin once viewed himself as a man who would always remain loyal to the original intent of the Abbey, no matter how corrupt it became. Though he expressed little interest in working as a missionary, he knew that past High Overseers took up the practice. Perhaps the Cosmos was testing humanity’s patience when it decided to pour out men and women who required the use of hands to speak. Martin didn’t know, but the thought pervaded his mind for the two years he spent huddled in the archives, memorizing the alphabet, or in the washroom to stare at his reflection, trying to figure the appropriate amount of facial gestures he could make without looking too awkward. He practiced every night for at least two hours, even though he had yet to meet anyone outside the Abbey who knew the language.

“Corvo, might I have a word with you?” 

It was the day after his rescue, the first day of freedom after being publicly humiliated and paraded around like a pariah. It was the accumulation of bitterness from the punishments he received the night before that lead Martin to approach Corvo, curious to know of last night’s escapade.

Corvo stopped picking through the contents of his meal and offered Martin a smile. He politely gestured to the stool next to his. Martin stared at it with a hint of worry. He could hear the peasant girl sweeping behind him, and he knew Pendleton’s manservant was just around the corner.

“If you don’t mind,” he began, giving a wave of his hand in order to catch Corvo’s attention with it. He brought the hands together. He was nervous. He had never signed to another before. But he began the series of motions, starting off a bit shaky, but then developed to a smoother set of gestures. _“I want to speak privately.”_

Corvo didn’t mind one bit. If anything, he looked rather excited. Martin could easily imagine why. Earlier Havelock informed him that Corvo’s vocalizations were limited to a few weakened grunts. Nobody at the pub knew how to communicate with their hands, so he was limited to answering simple “yes” or “no” questions. A five-minute stroll down the street wasn’t a chore if it meant sharing a _real_ conversation with someone.

Once the two were far enough from the pub, and Martin sure that they weren’t followed, he began. “Corvo, I’m not going to pretend that you entered Holger Square with open arms. I saw firsthand how the Abbey treats potential threats…”

Martin could not help but look over Corvo’s shoulder. He was wary of being caught. Of being judged.

“But those men that chased after you. Some of those men were my brothers.” Martin watched as Corvo gave a slow nod. It almost looked convincing, but Martin knew better. “I need you to tell me, in your own words, how many lives were lost, and how. Given the circumstances, I promise to forgive whatever transgressions were committed.”

He dropped his arms. Just as Corvo tried to appear understanding of his situation, Martin wanted to seem as compassionate as he could.

“ _All_ transgressions,” he concluded. He was becoming unusually aware of his Adam’s apple, and the pressure surrounding it. “Including theirs against you.”

Surely morbid curiosity fell somewhere under the seventh stricture? Martin could have easily asked for a number. What good did knowing the method of killing do for him, other than provide him a strange sense of justice?

He waited for Corvo to lift his arms up, maybe even to take a step back. Serkonan sign language required more expressive movements from the arms and shoulders. But instead, he saw Corvo shake his head at him, hands never leaving his pockets.

“There’s no need to worry, Corvo,” Martin said. “I’m aware your job entails some violence.”

Corvo shook his head again. It wasn’t any less respectful, and this time Martin had to think about how to respond. 

Was it impolite to assume Corvo was missing the point? Martin thought so, but it didn’t stop him from raising his hands up to him and carefully signing out: _“How many died?”_

His movements were sharp and noticeably rougher than what he did before. Tyvian sign language wasn’t known for its gracefulness, but this was embarrassingly bad. Martin was letting his anger show, and he knew it. The expression on Corvo’s face suggested otherwise. He watched his hands rapidly flip over, from palm to back and back to palm, and give a slow nod in response. Martin knew it was out of politeness. 

Corvo lifted his hand up to Martin, and then a single finger. 

“One?” Martin asked. His voice hinted the slightest bit of discontent. Corvo learning about the heretic’s brand and doing away Campbell in a nonlethal manner was quite the plight on its own. Now he was expected to believe Corvo achieved this while also managing to get away with killing only one man?

Corvo gave another nod, and then brought his right hand up to his head. Martin watched the middle finger press against the forehead, the remaining fingers raised up before Corvo snapped his hand forward, the movement so quick it brought a few strands of hair out of place.

_“Sick of…”_

Martin followed Corvo’s right hand, watching it fall from the head and settle in front of his chest. His brows burrowed. He was looking for the right word. But then he motioned with his hands again, and he formed a pattern of letters. He let each letter settle long enough for Martin to recognize them before switching to the next. By the fourth letter Martin had the answer.

“The plague,” he said. “An Overseer with the plague.” He brought his finger and thumb to his face letting the feel of the worn leather rest underneath his eyes before dragging them down. “You…bestowed mercy on a Overseer with the plague?”

Corvo shook his head. Martin expected as much. He had an easier time believing Corvo got away with clean hands than he did imagining him inflicting a mercy kill on someone who, if healthy, would kill him at the given chance.

Corvo raised his hands again. _“I watched him die.”_

“You watched him die,” Martin muttered. His eyes fell to the dirty pavement. “That means he was killed by someone else.” 

He heard rumors spreading throughout the Abbey of members getting sick with the plague. Almost always the stories ended with Overseers turning against each other. 

Martin returned his attention to Corvo. The man was being generous with his patience. Martin wasn’t sure if this was out of kindness, or to get away with lying.

“Who killed him?” he asked. He already knew the answer, but curiosity had a firm hold of him.

Another difference between the Serkonan and Tyvian sign language was the slang. Tyvian sign language appropriated the gestures linked with the word “supervisor” to represent the Abbey. Serkonan signs language adopted another method, creating a new series of motions. The index and middle fingers circled the face, and then gestured towards the center, where it would then trail over the mouth and create a frown. Some interpreted the sign was merely using the mask to signify the Abbey, while others argued it was an act of defiance.

Corvo had begun with the fingers, but stopped midway with creating the circle. They changed position, turning into a modified “L” before coming down and resting on top of his less dominant hand, effectively changing the sign to “brother.” 

_“His brother helped him. A mercy kill.”_

The signing was slow, but it all felt so rapid to Martin. Even after Corvo waved at him, and repeated the patterns, Martin found it difficult to believe. Why? Was it so hard to think the same men who locked him up in the middle of Holger Square also performed a mercy kill in the same night? Was it impossible to believe that Corvo completed his mission without harming anyone, other than the intended target? Or was it his thirst for vengeance against those who did wrong by him, and disappoint in learning there was none to be had? 

Martin’s eyes settled on Corvo’s resting hands, and he saw the strange mark printed on the back of his left. 

After a long sigh, Martin fixed himself back up and smiled at Corvo. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve put my mind at ease.” He offered his hand to Corvo. “Keep up the good work.”

Corvo took his hand with his left, and Martin was able to catch another glimpse of the mark. He understood what it meant. It meant Corvo was a useful asset to the Loyalists, but in the end he was not a man to be trusted. Martin no longer worried about his own morals. 

He wished Corvo good luck on his next mission, and even went as far as slapping a hand over the man’s shoulder, to show his appreciation. Corvo seemed to like that. He was just about ready to sign to him to when Martin came up with an excuse to leave. He explained that he needed time to mourn the loss of a brother, but in reality it was to get away from him. He had his hands tucked deep in his pockets by the time he reached Havelock’s office. Martin had done his part, and after his conversation with Corvo he had no intention to sign again.


	2. Smile

Once she was finished sweeping the stairs, Cecelia wandered into the pub. It wasn’t her intent to stroll around aimlessly, but there was so little to do once chores were done, and hardly anyone cared to speak with her.

She found Corvo huddled in one of the booths, feasting on bread and cheese, and drinking a fair amount of mulled cider. Cecelia backed away and hid herself behind the bar before he could notice her. She wasn’t afraid of him. If anything, she found him rather alluring, almost relatable. She knew what it was like to go days without speaking a word, and could imagine spending years doing the same. She was given more than a fair amount of odd looks. There were also times when she smacked her hand against the counter, just to catch attention from Lydia or Callista, sometimes even Wallace.

“Enjoying your meal, love?” Lydia asked. Cecelia wasn’t sure when she had arrived, but there she stood, in front of Corvo’s booth, a bottle in one hand, a small plate of fruits in the other. “The admiral says he’d like a word with you, after you finish. No rush though.”

She placed the plate on the table, and looked over her shoulder, at Cecelia. She knew why. It was rude to stare. She tucked her hat down to cover her face before turning around the corner.

She heard Lydia ask if he’d like some more to drink, maybe a bit of meat with his meal, before leaving him to finally give her a scolding. “You know,” Lydia said, “if you got nothing else to do, maybe go upstairs and change the sheets?”

“Maybe,” she muttered, earning another odd stare from Lydia. She turned her head slightly, but watched from the corner of her eyes as Lydia shrugged at her, too indifferent to care anymore. She waited a few minutes before heading back into the pub. This time she chose to peer around the corner. She doubted Corvo would notice her anyways, but still.

“Corvo, Corvo!” Lady Emily passed by Cecelia and ran across the pub, not stopping as she jumped into Corvo’s booth. “Look at this picture I drew for you. Do you like it?”

Cecelia watched Emily shove a wrinkled sheet of paper into Corvo’s face. Her view of him was obscured, but she imagined he was smiling. The thought was enough to have her smile.

Maybe there were some similarities, but unlike her, Corvo could change impressions. The man couldn’t speak, yet he did so much to alter everyone’s view of him. Callista and Lydia no longer feared him, and Wallace stated that Corvo’s work did wonders in aiding Lord Pendleton’s campaign. Admiral Havelock told everyone that actions spoke louder than words, and now Cecelia was starting to believe it. Corvo stopped a bunch of powerful men, and he brought Lady Emily to the Hound’s Pit. That was so much more than what she could ever imagine one person doing.

Emily took a handful of grapes and stuffed them into her mouth. She made strange noises, and Corvo shook his head and grinned at her before grabbing some of his own and mirroring her actions.

Amidst their antics, Cecelia wondered if she might ever do the same. Not save an empire, but perhaps do something of value, just on a smaller scale. Maybe she could earn recognition the same way Corvo did, through meaningful actions, and then people wouldn’t treat her like a dullard or child. Perhaps one day. Cecelia doubted it. For now she was content in watching changes occur around her.

“Who’s that?”

At some point Emily took notice of her, and was now pointing a finger at her. Corvo swallowed his grapes and tilted his head, trying to get a better view. Cecelia dug her nails into the wood. Oh, she was going to hear it from Wallace tonight.

Corvo then tapped a few fingers on the table. Emily looked away from Cecelia and back to him, watching as he made some signs with his hand.

“Oh, Cecelia?” Emily said aloud. She turned herself around and smiled. “Hello, Cecelia?”

Hearing her name spoken by the future Empress made Cecelia all the more nervous. She wanted to hide behind the corner, but she bit her lip and gave the future Empress a quick nod. Emily continued to eye her curiously, and on the other side of the table Cecelia saw Corvo leaning on his elbow, giving her a small wave before producing a small grin of his own. His teeth were covered with pieces of grape.

With such an odd sight before her, Cecelia suddenly felt at ease. Her fear dwindled, and she found just the right amount of courage to wave back. She thought she might say something, but then Emily noticed Corvo’s messy teeth and burst into a fit of chuckles, waving a finger at him and calling him some playful names. With the two distracted, she decided to take her leave. Better to disappear than push her luck.

She rested on her bed, replaying the last few minutes over in her mind. The few seconds of attention she received from the two was nice. It was more than what she was used to from everyone else. And Corvo waved at her.

Cecelia rolled on her side. For the first time in a long while she felt giddy.

Next time she’d do it. She’d talk to them. She’d give herself a voice.


	3. Wonder

Havelock thought the weather was favorable enough to warrant a private conversation with Lord Pendleton outside of the pub. There was a slight breeze, but nothing too frigid that would invite several swigs of rum or vodka, or whatever the nobleman kept on his person.

“Look at her, waving her hands about,” Treavor Pendleton murmured heavily under his breath. Havelock wasn’t sure if this sudden interruption was meant to be a statement directed at him, or a merely an observation that ended up louder than it was intended, due to Pendleton’s intoxication. “She looks like a lunatic.”

Havelock didn’t have to look too far to see what Pendleton was complaining about. With a slight turn of the head he glanced over the metal sheeting that separated the shore from the rest of the brewery, and he saw Lady Emily crouched over the mud, accompanied by Corvo.

He could easily list of a number of complaints as to why the scene before them was inappropriate, and “waving her hands about” was not one of them. His eyes lowered to her white stockings stained with mud and grime, her delicate hands covered in filth.

“What about it?” he asked.

“It just feels unbecoming, don’t you think?” Pendleton asked. “Her making all those… _gestures_. I swear; I half expect her to start jumping around and shaking her hips! Hmph.”

Havelock sighed through his nose as Pendleton brought out his flask to take yet another liberal gulp. He waited until the flask was tucked away before taking his cigar from his mouth to very carefully point out: “It’s _sign_ language. In order for her to communicate with Corvo, she has to _sign_ to him.”

Pendleton chuckled. He wiped his lips dry before turning away from the scene, shaking his head like a mother about to scold her boy. “ _Admiral_ ,” he began, “Corvo does a fine enough job understanding you and I without us wiggling our fingers or making faces. Yes, he’s given us a few odd stares, but he manages to get the job done.”

Havelock played with his cigar, rolling it between his fingers and letting ash fall from the tip. He didn’t say anything, _not yet_ , but he did raise his brow at Pendleton.

“And young Emily is our Empress,” he added. “There is no reason for her to have to adjust around the Lord Protector. It’s improper. _Serkonan signing_. Very improper for a Empress.” He shifted through his coat, swaying a bit as he searched his pockets. Havelock wondered why the man bothered to ever put the flask away at all. “You know,” Pendleton continued, “what I really don’t understand is why she’s taken the practice herself. Was it part of her learning curriculum? Or did Corvo teach her when no one was looking?”

Havelock was just about to suggest they take their conversation to one of their resting quarters, before things got _too_ loud, when those questions were suddenly raised. Drunk as he was, Pendleton made a decent point. Lady Emily only just arrived, yet she gave away so much regarding her relationship with Corvo. He knew the man had a strong influence on her, but to this extent? Martin told him that sign language wasn’t even part of the Overseer’s advanced curriculum. What were the chances of it being part of hers?

He looked over the makeshift walling, at Emily playing by the shallow water, and Corvo sitting on a piece of broken hull, not too far behind. Under the fair light of the sun, Havelock could see the contours of her face, and he was sure that there were vague similarities between the two. The eyebrows. The cheekbones. It was hard to tell, especially without her mother to make a side comparison, but maybe that desire to learn from Corvo was a result of biological–

His thought was suddenly cut short when he heard something hit the floor. It was Pendleton’s flask. “Shit, they’ve spotted us,” the man grumbled.

Havelock turned and saw Emily, now sitting next to Corvo, waving at him and Pendleton. Out of guilt, he rested his stare on Corvo. Even with the developing circles under the eyes and the unshaven face, man had the most pleasant of smiles on, and it only made him feel worse for allowing this conversation to go on so long.

Pendleton nudged him. “Wave back, Havelock,” he muttered through his exaggerated grin.

It was a pathetic demand, but Havelock followed it and gave a quick wave to Emily, and a stiff, professional nod to Corvo.

“Afternoon, you two!” Pendleton called out, his voice pitched up. He sounded pathetically childish. “Having fun by the water, my Lady? Well, be careful! Corvo, you make sure no hagfish get near our Empress now!” He stumbled forward, and Havelock grabbed him by the ends of his coat in order to avoid him hitting his face against the metal. Pendleton fell into a nervous fit of laughter. “Look at us,” he practically yelled out. “We’re all having fun here! Maybe too much fun, don’t you think, admiral?”


	4. Forgive

Daud adopted several hand motions as a means of communication between his men. There were always those missions that required a greater number of men, but also stealth. It was pertinent that his men recognized the various signs and what they stood for, and it was necessary that they adopt the same movements.

A few called it sign language. Billie once referred to it as the language before words. Daud couldn’t think to call it either, not when their vocabulary was limited to a few orders or suggestions, weapons, warnings and the rare compliment.

When the Royal Protector came into his possession, Daud considered the possibility of an interrogation. The corruption behind the Loyalist movement, along with the recent events that took place in Dunwall tower, left him with many questions. Corvo had the answers he sought. Since he couldn’t speak, breaking fingers wasn’t an option, and without knowing which hand was dominant, Daud decided against cutting off the marked hand. It was a fatal mistake on his part.

He thought he was prepared. Daud knew Corvo would be an aggressive fighter. He had every reason to be. Out of all the men Corvo sought vengeance on, Daud was the one who wronged him the most. His men readied their bolts. He warned them to stay back. The orders were clear: this was a fight between him and Corvo. Daud drew his sword and charged at the man, prepared to use his powers to get him from behind, but Corvo proved to be the quicker swordsman. He disappeared from sight, and before Daud could register it, felt the first of many blows slicing into his shoulder.

And after receiving a kick to the gut, the edge of a blade cutting into his arms, panic began to set in. He started taunting the man. He raised his voice at him. He tried to convince Corvo who the _real_ enemy was. The force of the blade never changed, and each strike left Daud weaker. His vision was blurring, stained with his own blood. Even with his ability to alter time, Corvo maneuvered around him.  

A stab to the abdomen dealt the final blow. With what little stamina he had left, he used his powers to escape. He didn’t get very far, and it didn’t take long for Corvo to make his way over to him. Three of his men materialized in front of him, weapons armed, ready to sacrifice themselves to Corvo’s blade.

“Get away from here,” Daud ordered between heavy breaths. “This is none of your concern.”

One of his men looked over his shoulder, at him. Even with the mask on, Daud knew he was concerned. He kept a straight face and waited for them to transverse out of the immediate area before getting on one knee and asking for his life.

Daud always envisioned dying by the blade, but begging just beforehand? And though he couldn’t see his men, he knew they were watching him, listening as he confessed his sins and doubts to Corvo. He told him– _them_ –everything, including his plans to leave the city and disappear. He wasn’t sure what good it did. He must’ve known it would end here; otherwise he’d have kept that terrible secret.

Corvo grabbed him by the collar, pushing the blade against his neck. Daud thought he heard the buildings around him begin to quake with sudden movements. Were his men readying to strike, or had they decided to retreat while there was still time? Daud couldn’t think of an answer. He could not look away from the gruesome mask, the shaking lenses, or his miserable reflection staring at it. He looked frightened. He _was_ frightened.

Corvo’s blade began to quiver. Daud felt the grip on his neck lessen. The sword dropped, and Daud was pushed away. He backed into the wall, his breathing labored as he watched Corvo move away from him. He brought his left hand up and made a series of quick, frantic gestures. His movement was staggered, and the hand holding the sword was trembling. Daud was sure he could hear the man’s breathing through the mask. It almost matched his.

Daud had no clue what Corvo was telling him, if there was anything to decipher at all, but the irregular movements were enough of a warning for him to know he only had seconds before Corvo changed his mind.

The wood creaked above them. Both Corvo and Daud turned to find the origin of the sound. Crouching at the edge was Kent, mask off and his mouth covered with a trembling hand. He brought his hand down, his palm facing Corvo.

Daud shook his head. “Remarkable.”

He vanished before Corvo realized he’d been distracted.

Daud traversed as far as he could, managing to get out of Corvo’s reach this second time. He manifested on top of a building, took a step, and then fell on his stomach. The gash on his side burned. Daud turned over and stared up at the sky. He was becoming aware of every open wound, bleeding out and staining his uniform. How many times had Corvo cut into him? Enough for him to feel like he was on fire.

“Daud!”

Daud closed his eyes. So it was finally over. The Outsider had promised him his story was at its end.

“Master!”

And what an end it turned out to be. Corvo bested him in front of his men. He begged for his life. He barely got away.

“Sir!”

He felt a sharp, searing pain shoot across his body. Daud opened his eyes and stared at the blurred figures above him. One grabbed and pulled him up. Another slung his arm over his shoulder. His eyelids fluttered against the pain. He heard more men calling his name, surrounding him and asking if he was all right.

They were ripping off their masks and running towards him. Dimitri unbuckled his slash and belt to remove excess weight. Yuri unraveled bandages. Thomas demanded someone get disinfectant.

Daud looked around. He saw Kent amidst the crowd of assassins. He lifted his hand. He didn’t say anything, not with all the pain distracting him, that feeling of claustrophobia kicking in.

“Master?” Kent knelt down. It was out of respect. Why? After everything he said?

“What did you tell him?” Daud asked. “When you did _that_ with your hands?” He knew those gestures had a meaning, but he never used them himself. It was something the boy had picked up on his free time.  

“I said ‘thank you’,” he answered. “Well, I think I did.”

The air around him was turning hot. Too many people in one area. Daud heard someone call out. Corvo was headed to the sewers. They could move back into the building once things were secure. Daud winced, not from pain but from something else. “ _Why?_ ” he asked.

The question wasn’t for Kent, and maybe the kid knew it, and everyone else who still thought he was worth trying to save, but he answered anyway. “Because he let you live.”

A Whaler still donning his mask pushed Kent out of the way. “Sir, we need to remove your coat.”

There wasn’t enough strength left in him to do it himself, so he let the two holding him do the honors. As Whalers called out to one another, trying to get a headcount of who was missing, or who was found unconscious, Daud replayed those last few minutes in his mind. What had Corvo signed to him? He supposed Kent might have known, but the boy was out of his line of sight.  All he could see now were unclear images of his men, some boys, in masks or in panic, trying to keep what was left of their crumbling infrastructure together.


	5. Work

That charming boy with the handsome face whispered in her dreams. He told her of a man who might get tangled in her web, or walk alongside her, her hand in his, like the proper gentlemen of her youthful days. Most of the time, if she received any attention, it came in the forms of broken bottles and trash tossed at her. Those nasty boys, demanding she give what little she had.

“Listen, Vera.” His voice was icy cold, and echoed in her mind. “His name is Corvo Attano. Try to remember it. He’ll be different than those you’ve humored before.”

Though she forgot the name, she knew most men were the same. The Knife of Dunwall was quiet on his feet. He went out and did her bidding, but only because he loved her gifts. He desired the bones and the black magic. This one would be no different. All those bearing the mark chased after the sound of sweet humming.

It was raining when he arrived. The sounds of his boots against the rotten floorboards set him apart from the famous assassin. Such a loud boy.

“Dearie?” she called. “Is that you?”

He gave her no answer. He never would. But he was never rude and he helped get rid of those pesky Bottle Street boys that wouldn’t leave her alone. She felt their presence dwindle, then slowly dragged away, but not snuffed out. Next time she would need to choose her words carefully. But a promise was a promise, and though she could not hear it, she felt the vibrations of his gratitude when he plucked the rune from the string.

Her handsome boy visited her once more, but not to congratulate her on a job well done.

“You rely on gift-giving to win the favor of those who posses powers greater than yours, Vera.” She traced her hands along his face, feeling the sharp angles of a boy forever starved. She tried to remember what it all looked like, not as shadows under her touch, but as the pale beauty that used to visit her almost nightly. “I wonder how much longer this tactic will last?”

What did this dearie look like? Unlike the assassin, who only reached out when his hunger for the humming overtook the desire for secrecy, her new caller had no problem being upfront. Once satiated, the assassin vanished. This one touched her shoulder, tapped fingers on the broken stoves and sinks to let her know he was there, and tried guiding her to decrepit furniture. He reminded her of another dearie before. Were it not for the smaller, gentler hands she might have convinced herself it was the same boy from all those years ago.

“Be aware, Vera,” the Void whispered its last words to her. “All things must change eventually. Even those bearing my mark.” 

Those gentle hands grabbed her by the hair and shoved his blade into her neck.


	6. Hurt

Samuel wasn’t a talkative man. He thought Corvo might change a few things. Long boats rides tend to spark interesting thoughts, and those can lead to just as interesting conversations. But as he directed his boat closer to Kingsparrow Island, Samuel was finding it difficult to come up with anything to say. 

Corvo was sitting at the edge of the boat, in his usual spot, his back facing Samuel. With that mask of his, his shoulders hunched and hands hidden away in his coat, Samuel couldn’t gauge what was going on with him. If only he had something to say, maybe he’d catch Corvo’s attention and have him turn around.

Heavy clouds rolled across the sky, heading in the opposite direction of their destination. Samuel was afraid the weather might turn sour, but every once in awhile he’d catch a glimpse of the sun breaking through the grey. It looked promising.

“If things keep fair we should reach the island in a hour or so,” he said, doing his best to sound as enthusiastic as he could.

Corvo didn’t move from his spot. Samuel licked his lips, feeling the sting from the salty air accumulating on his chapped lips.

Samuel believed in Corvo’s abilities, probably more than anyone else in the group, but right now he was starting to worry. He might have left the loyalists before things got bloody, but he had a pretty good idea what went on. Corvo though, Corvo had to see that. After getting poisoned, betrayed and cast out, first thing he must’ve seen when he returned to the pub was the aftermath of a bunch of men gone power-hungry. Obviously Corvo didn’t indicate what he’d seen, but Samuel could guess by the silence that most of their companions were dead. Corvo might have a sword and gun, and maybe he was touched by the Outsider, but he was still just a man.

“Corvo?” Samuel saw the man hunch over; dipping his head so low some of his hair fell out from the hood.

He adjusted the motor. The propeller kept on lapping into the water, but now the boat was drifting at a slower rate. It was noticeable enough to alert Corvo. He looked over his raised shoulder, to Samuel, with that mask of his.

“Corvo, I’m not about to pretend I know what you’re going through,” he said. “I wasn’t there to see the bodies. To watch ‘em die. I was a coward, Corvo.” He fixated on the mask. Such a grizzly design. What went on in Piero’s mind when he made that thing, Samuel could only guess.

The boat creaked and swayed as Corvo moved in his seat. He went back to staring at the water lapping against the side of the boat, but Samuel could hear the ragged breathing behind the mask. Was he sad? Angry? Probably both. He had every right to be, too.

“I wish I knew some of your signs,” he muttered. “I wish I took the time to learn a lot of things.” Corvo was peering over his shoulder again. Well, at least it looked that way. Samuel went on, “Maybe things would be different. Then again, I might not be here taking you to the lighthouse.”

The boat rocked. Corvo’s hood began sliding off his head. Samuel was sure he could hear something. It was like a whine, but airier. There was no definite sound to it, other than the weight of desperate, heaving breath.

Samuel turned off the motor. “Corvo, I don’t know what you’re saying when you do all them signings to Miss Emily,” he said. He watched Corvo slowly turn his head, raise his hand and shake it at him. Samuel pressed on. “But if there’s something you wanna let out, now’s the time to do it. Y’know, just in case…”

He didn’t have the slightest bit of doubt that Corvo would make it through this final mission alive, and with Emily in his arms. But Samuel couldn’t shake the feeling that Corvo was losing something in doing all this dirty work. Even without the killing. To experience betrayal over and over again, and learn you were nothing but a pawn in a corrupt game for power; that had to do things to a man. And who could Corvo turn to? Emily didn’t deserve that burden, and no one else knew how to interpret signs.

Somehow he got Corvo to listen. Samuel held on to the sides of his boat, re-adjusting the weight while Corvo turned himself around. For a few seconds Corvo stared at him with his hands draped over his knees, the mask still covering his face. He lowered his head, and the hood slid off, causing his hair to spill over parts of his hidden face. Samuel heard another stuttered sigh, this one sounding heavier and wetter than before. He turned away when he saw Corvo bring his hands up to remove the mask. He wasn’t sure why. He waited until after he knew it was resting between Corvo’s boots, and his hands and head were high enough, before returning a stare.

Corvo was gripping his chest. His hand tugged downward, enough to drag the buttoned trench coat and grey waistcoat with it. Corvo brought his other hand up to his neck. His other hand remained on top of his knee, but like the other it was grabbing the fabric of his uniform. And Corvo… Corvo looked tired. He never looked well-kept. No amount of bathing, shaving, or rubbing oils into his skin could do away the six months of being locked away in Coleridge. But he looked worse than he had the night of the party, of that Samuel was aware. The bags under his eyes were darker, the look in them wearier, the wrinkles more prominent, and his lips were set into a permanent frown.

He half-expected Corvo to break into some sort of signing, but the look in his eyes gave Samuel all that he needed to know.

“Yeah,” he nervously murmured. He scratched the back of his head while reaching over for the motor. “I suppose I don’t deserve to be that person. Not now, not after following their orders and poisoning you."

Corvo expression remained unchanged, but as soon as Samuel turned on the motor, he was reaching for his mask, and when the boat started propelling across the water, Corvo was already donning it. There was no more heavy breathing, no more raised shoulders or lowered head. Corvo didn’t have his back facing Samuel anymore, and was instead facing forward. He couldn’t see past the mask, but Samuel was sure underneath it was a look of absolute determination. It might have very well been the only good thing to come from this one-sided conversation. Even with that in mind, Samuel kept mouthing an apology, over and over, until they were just minutes away from the lighthouse.


	7. Love

The small, white ornate table was set underneath the gazebo. It provided an adequate amount of shade and it wasn’t too much to deter away the warm, subtle summer breeze.

Jessamine pressed her lips to the edge of her teacup, letting a smile form against the smooth porcelain. “Such a lovely day,” she commented before taking her first sip. Strong green tea from up north. Most nobles would think it was too bitter to accompany the sweets being served at the table. “I live for days like these.”

“As do I, Empress,” her maid replied.

Jessamine opened her eyes. A young woman stood by her side, preparing her a small plate of creamy sandwiches and fruit. Jessamine held her cup a bit longer, watching the granules from her tea sink to the bottom of the cup. She turned her attention to her Royal Protector.

“And you, Corvo?” She asked him.

He was applying a generous portion of butter on his bread when the question hit him. Corvo stopped spreading it to answer her with his happy, crooked grin. It wasn't an unbecoming smile, but to anyone on the receiving end it was blatantly apparent that Corvo never learned how to produce a more handsome or humble grin. He showed off too much teeth, and the skin around his eyes were terribly wrinkled. Jessamine didn't mind, it said more and she prefered it over any smooth hand signatures that Corvo performed.

She returned him a smile.”I agree. It's almost perfect.”

The air was a delectable combination of salty and sweet, a result of imported citruses being carried down the riverfront and mixing with the natural tang of the ocean air. Mating season was over, but songbirds could  be heard in the background, teasing Jessamine’s ears with their continuous flirting. Were it not for the maids and guards present, Jessamine would have challenged the birds with a tune of her own. But the tablecloth was too short and fine and Jessamine couldn't bump the front of her heels against Corvo's boots. And the day was too peaceful, so out of hand whispers would not be tolerated, certainly not with their current audience.

Corvo gave her a slow nod. He hardly ever offered his hands to her, but with good reason. The work of an Empress was demanding. Growing up, her hobbies were limited to the arts, dancing, reciting poetry and fine literature, calligraphy and performance. Even after demanding Corvo become her Royal Protector, there wasn't enough time to spend mastering sign language. It was a frustrating situation. There was a level of intimacy built between monarch and protector, though Jesamine and Corvo did everything to ensure it remained as discreet as possible, but the inability to simply speak to one another added some difficulty. Corvo could understand her, but in order for her to do the same required him slowly signing the word out to her, one letter at a time. Most phrases and words were beyond her comprehension, save the most obvious of gestures, but then even the common servant girl understood the hand signature for “I love you.”

“Mother!” The two looked over and spotted Emily running up to them, a few of her teachers trailing behind. “Corvo!" 

Jessamine turned away from her thoughts and greeted her daughter with a smile, placing her cup on the table just in time to welcome Emily with a warm embrace. “Done with today’s studies, my love?”

“Yes, and thank goodness, too,” Emily said. She rolled her eyes. “Today’s topics were so boring.”

Jessamine looked to Emily’s tutors and waved at them. “Give her an hour before music lessons. It’s such a beautiful day.” From the corner of her eyes she caught Emily grinning excitedly at her. “It would be a shame for Emily to spend most of it inside.”

“Of course, my Empress.”

They left and Emily took her seat between Jessamine and Corvo. By the time a plate was offered to her, Emily had already grabbed some bread and a knife to spread jam across. Next to her Corvo was taking gracious bites from his buttered bread, giving Emily the messy, crooked grin now stained with bits of bread and butter.

“Gross, Corvo,” Emily laughed. “That’s not how you act in front of a lady.”

Corvo signed to her with his free hand. It was too fast for Jessamine to completely make out.

Emily gasped. “Why, I never,” she said with a huge pout. Emily rolled her bread up, causing some jam to squeeze out from the ends. “Hey, Corvo, think I can fit this entire piece into my mouth?” 

Corvo placed his bread down on his plate and shook his head at her. Jessamine watched with interest as he brought his hands together, fingers sliding across the palm of his less dominant hand.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Emily complained, holding the jam roll with both hands. Small clumps of jam were dripping from both ends, getting all over her fingers before hitting the plate beneath. Jessamine noticed, but couldn’t think to care. It never ceased to amaze her, to fill her with delight and envy to see Emily speak with Corvo, to understand him with hardly any hesitation.

It had started as simply mimicry: an infant waving her fists up in the air whenever she caught Corvo signing to the few members in the tower that could comprehend him. By the time she was four she had mastered the alphabet and simple phrases, and by eight she was having small conversations with Corvo. Emily was not yet ten, but she was able to pick up on most of what Corvo signed to her, and she could sign back to him if she so desired, though Jessamine had suggested to her to be careful as to when and where she did it.

“Oh, I learned some new sentences last night,” Emily suddenly interjected. She pushed her elbows on the table and leaned closer to Corvo. “I know I was supposed to be asleep. Don't get angry.”

Corvo wiped his hands against his trousers before raising them and signing to Emily. Now Jessamine couldn’t make any sense of what he was telling her, at least not without the context her daughter had provided.

“Want me to show you?” Emily asked before taking a bite of her jam and bread, decorating the ends of her mouth with crumbs and sticky residue.

Jessamine was eager to see what her daughter had learned during her free time. It was endearing to see Emily achieve what she couldn't. It was wonderful to see Emily and Corvo bond this way, even if it meant her being left as a spectator.

Emily began maneuvering her hands and arms, slow swaying motions that came together to form some word or phrase, and Corvo nodding in return, his impressive smile a testament to how proud he was. He signed back at her, performing the same gestures but faster. Emily eyes fixated on his movements, determined to capture each swift motion in his manner. She tried again, this time matching Corvo’s speed, but then added an additional sign at the end, and then another. To Jessamine and everyone else, it was a series of unknown gestures, hands willing out unknown words to a mute Serkonan. But to Corvo?

Jessamine saw a sudden change in his temperament. His smile faltered a little, and she caught him nearly dropping his cup of tea when Emily finished signing to him. “Is something to matter?” she asked him.

Corvo set his cup down and wiped his mouth, making a slight grunt in the process, and then shook his head at Jessamine. He had the faintest blush settling on his cheeks.

“Did I do it wrong, Corvo?” Emily asked with a small frown.

Jessamine straightened herself up and tapped Emily lightly on the shoulder. “What did you tell Corvo, dear?”

“That we should get married one day,” Emily answered. Her answer incited a few of the guards to snicker at each other, the maid to smile.

It was innocent enough, and Jessamine couldn't blame Emily for coming up with a such a remark, so she smiled at her daughter reply, reached out and played with a few of Emily’s curls. “Well, looks like you’ve surprised him,” she explained with a lighthearted chuckle. “Not too many men are prepared to have a young lady propose to them.” She raised her eyes towards Corvo, signaling him to play along.

After that the conversation was dropped and returned to the safety net that was the pleasant weather and good food. The sweets offered kept Emily busy, and she and her young tastebuds competed against Corvo’s voracious appetite. Emily made a mess of her outfit, spilling jam and powdered sugar over her petticoat. It was a good enough excuse for Jessamine to ask the maid to escort Emily to her quarters, to switch into something more decent before she began her music lessons. She waited for them to leave, and then Jessamine watched the guards, her eyes memorizing their bored expressions, waiting until she was sure they were busy keeping each other entertained before nudging her seat closer to Corvo. 

She bumped the tip of her boots against his. “Emily is a quick learner,” she said. Corvo eyed her and quietly nodded. She felt his hand rest on her leg, warm and large and comforting. Jessamine stared straight at him, her expression unchanging. “One day the two of you will be able to sign _many_ things to each other.”

The two stared at one another, expressions not harboring any hints as to what they felt regarding the forbidden topic. Underneath the table Corvo’s hand squeezed her leg. It could have meant anything, a _yes_ or _no_ or nothing at all. Jessamine leaned closer to him, her stare softening as she tried to read his. There did not seem to be a future where Corvo broke the promise they made to one another in those eyes.

“One day, maybe,” Jessamine muttered, sounding less enthused. “When she’s older and can keep a secret.” The winds blew another tasteful combination of sweet and salty. Jessamine raised her eyes towards the sky, taking in the silence. “Such a lovely day.” 

* * *

 

Corvo stared restlessly at his reflection.

It was strange to be back in his room, after spending several months locked away, and later cooped up in the attic of the Hound’s Pit.

His face was clean shaven, hair cut and his clothes ironed and buttons polished, yet there was no denying that there was a change in his eyes. He was older, so much older than he had been since the last time he had looked at himself through this mirror with ornamented framing. He looked exhausted, relieved and out of place in this large room filled with cushions, warm blankets, his favorite books and precious Serkonan trinkets.

Right now it mattered little. Everyone in the tower was busy setting everything up for Emily’s coronation. The servants. The guards. Even the Abbey went and sent special overseers to look over the occasion. Corvo was alone.

He was alone in his unlight room. Corvo looked away from his reflection, down at the large heart cradled in his hands. With some hesitation he raised it up to the mirror, at his reflection. The mirror back in the Hound’s Pit had been cracked and caked with grime effects of time. Corvo assumed it was for those reasons the Heart never worked on him. And simply bringing the Heart to his chest did nothing, and Corvo couldn't bear hearing _her_ voice speaking about others, and right now all he wanted was to hear her _speak to him_ , about him, and tell him things would be alright. Emily was going to take the throne. He needed Jessamine’s words, her advice, her presence.

Corvo stared impatiently at the Heart, waiting for it murmur something, anything. He looked up at his reflection, at the tired frightened man clutching the still heart covered in wires and filled with disgusting gears.

Nothing. _Why?_ Corvo pushed the organ closer to the mirror. Still nothing. He felt the Heart give a weak beat, perhaps detecting a rune or charm not too far away from his current location, but nothing more.

 _Why?_ Corvo looked down at the Heart, his eyes stinging with disappointment, then frustration and anger, and then, finally, tears. _Why, Jessamine?_

He lifted the Heart to his face, closing his eyes and letting tears break away and fall down his cheek, onto the silent Heart.

Corvo’s hands shook as he held the Heart to his lips. _Jessamine_.


	8. Remember

Each time Corvo entered the Void, he was pained with the Outsider’s words.

Tonight was no different. Corvo stood in the middle of an island, surrounded by fractured buildings and debris, staring upward at the deity that had branded him with the mark.

“You saved the Empress, Corvo,” the Outsider began. “And by the looks of it, you plan on playing it safe from here out.”

Corvo was surprised the Outsider visited. Past visits to the shrines had resulted in the Outsider praising him for his ability to avoid danger, to find alternate routes that didn’t result in the deliberate death of a target. However, since saving Emily, Corvo had hung his weapons on the mantelpiece, saving them because of the personal value they held. That, and a cruel reminder of the works of man. The mask was tossed in the river shortly after Emily was crowned Empress. After that, Corvo turned to his previous duties as Lord Protector. He gladly fell back into his rigorous, but ultimately repetitious schedule. Corvo assumed this would mean no more strange conversations with the mysterious being.

The Outsider pulling him into the Void and welcoming him with an amused smile was worrying.

“Corvo.” The Outsider rested a hand under his chin, letting a few fingers curl over his smile. “Throughout this journey you struggled to preserve your honor. You staved using your blade for as long as you could, succumbing only when your anger grew too much to bear. You barely managed to spare the man who murdered the empress, but surrendered to lesser means against a marked one you hardly knew.”

Corvo did not need to be reminded his his recent deeds. He raised his hands to the Outsider and attempted to convey his discontent with a series of signs, only to watch the deity shake his head at him, and then smile indifferently at his failed effort.

“Despite saving an empire, history will twist your story,” the Outsider continued once Corvo dropped his arms. His head turned a little, and Corvo was sure the smile was on its way into becoming a nasty smirk. “I’m sure you’re well aware why.”

The Outsider rested his stare on Corvo’s hands. Corvo said nothing, and he tried to maintain his composure, but as the silence drew out, he felt more compelled to tuck his hands into the pockets of his coat. It was a terrible feeling, worse than what he endured as a child. He knew the Outsider held no real opinion of his situation, and that his smile and stare was one of curiosity, nothing more or less. But the feeling remained.

Disinterested in the reaction he had caused, the Outsider went on. “Humanity is cruel, and fears what it cannot understand. At best, you’ll be remembered as a man of few words.” His words forced an airy chuckle from Corvo. “Some will regard you as less,” he heard the Outsider add.

Remembering that he was pulled into the Void during his sleep, Corvo raised a finger and pointed at his head. The motion was simple; pointing and then moving his hand away while keeping a stern look on his face. There was no actual word or phrase behind the movement, but he hoped it would be enough to signify to the Outsider than he wasn’t in the mood to be his entertainment.

The Outsider _did_ stop and stare at him, but his expression gave no meaning behind what he might be thinking. Was the Outsider trying to understand him? He watched the Outsider cross his arms and lean back into the darkness of the Void, looking almost bored. _No_ , Corvo realized, the Outsider was waiting for him to stop these _meaningless_ hand gestures so that he might continue to send his message.

“I can tell by the look on your face that you don’t enjoy all of our encounters,” the Outsider said to him. Corvo stared up at the Outsider, waiting for him to give permission to leave this world. His head shifted again, dark eyes set on Corvo’s tired stance, and for a while there was silence, and the only sounds heard were the occasional empty howls produced by the Void.

It was enough to drive a normal man mad.

Finally, the Outsider moved, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward until he hovered just above Corvo. “Corvo,” he began, “what does it feel like, knowing that after all of this, you’ll remain a second class citizen? That people will whisper of your disability behind your back, and will judge Emily Kaldwin for practicing your manners?”

It was a not a question Corvo was prepared to hear, certainly not after everything he had done in order to save Emily, put her on the throne and reclaim an fragile empire. He desperately wanted to retort the Outsider’s claim, but knew he couldn’t, not because he lacked the voice, but because he knew there was some truth to these words. He listened to old rumors spread in the tower, saw the odd looks given to him when Emily first signed to him, and he had read Havelock’s journal. He was used to people thinking low of him for using his hands to “speak,” but Emily? He was not prepared for her to fall under the same kind of cruel judgement.

The Outsider took Corvo by the chin, and lifted his head up slowly so that their eyes would meet. “Is there no regret for saving these men who, had they met you on the streets, would have regarded you with contempt?”

Corvo turned away, taking a few steps towards the edge of the small island he occupied. For a while he did nothing but stare out into the vast space, fighting to not let the Outsider’s question get to him. But as with the many the Outsider had raised before, Corvo found himself lingering on it, wondering if he would have done everything the same, had he known what the loyalist thought of him. Not just their plans to betray him, but what they thought and said about him when he had his back turned. Corvo had barely been conscious when he was poisoned, but he remembered what Lord Pendleton and Martin had said about him.

Would he have been able to save the empire if everyone had spoken so _openly_ about him?

Corvo lowered his head and looked down at his hands. It was so medieval to be judged over something he had no control over.

He paused and realized that he wanted Emily to do more than just save Dunwall, but _change_ it.

Right on cue, the Outsider replied to his thoughts. “It’ll take more than a plague to change the hearts of men, Corvo,” he said. Though he kept his back facing the Outsider, Corvo supplied him the satisfaction of a nod. From the corner of his eye he saw the darkness of the Void begin to spread around him. “I know you’re ready to put this journey behind you,” the Outsider continued. He sounded closer. “I think we both know it’s not that simple, and I wonder if we both know that this won’t be the end of my visits, but rather a _temporary_ suspension?”

Distressed over what was just said, Corvo lifted his head and turned to face the Outsider. He wasn't sure to expect from the mysterious being, but he floated right above him, one hand resting under his elbow, the over on the side of his face. His face gave away nothing, and expressed little. Corvo looked up at him and scowled. His marked hand tingled with a mild burn. 

The Outsider smiled. “Real change is just over the horizon, Corvo.”


End file.
